Compromised
by TeeEye82
Summary: What is the difference between to fight to the death and to die fighting? It depends on when you ask; and in Compromised, you will follow an "average" Scout Regiment cadet and a 21st century teenager as they struggle with the answer, and with the odd yet unbeknownst link between them. Rating(may change) for possible future themes. May or may not include pairings later.
1. Absolve

[1] Absolve.

_verb_

verb: **absolve**; 3rd person present: **absolves**; past tense: **absolved**; past participle: **absolved**; gerund or present participle: **absolving**

set or declare (someone) free from blame, guilt, or responsibility.

* * *

><p>So this is where my story starts. Actually, that's a lie. My story started years ago, out of text, somewhere beneath the sky of early morning and along the drifting sounds of the world. But to make things simple, I will just pretend it has officially begun here and now, and will fill you in on the details later.<p>

Here, in the courtyard mass of probably a hundred other cadets like myself, I stand shoulder to shoulder between two I don't know very well. Somewhere in the ranks are my friends, but I dare not look around to seek them out. Not now, where the stage holds each representative of the three Regiments.

I stand at ease, like my peers, though submit my undivided attention unto the current speaker; Commander Nile Dok. Head of the Military Police. He speaks of devotion to the King, and loyalty to the People. Whether his story is wholehearted or not isn't up to me to ponder. It's part of his job to acquire more soldiers, despite the brigade's already prestigious count. And so I will perform my duty as fresh meat to listen respectably. Not all of the cadets around me hold this same disposition, though, some whispering between each other about this or that and others playing an obscure game of footsie.

I am a part of the 105th Trainees Squad, and today is the infamous Graduation Ceremony. As cadets, it is our right to choose one of two military branches (as only the top ten of a class are applicable for the third) that we will pledge allegiance to and, inevitably, die for. Unfortunately, I wasn't among the top ten, so have between the Garrison Regiment and Scout Regiment to pick.

Commander Dok has left the spotlight to stand by the leader of the Garrison Regiment. Commander Erwin Smith has taken his place on the soapbox and is now preaching his offer and expectations for those considering the Scouts. There are a multitude of reasons why I wouldn't want to join this group, but there is also one distinct one that smothers those doubts and brings me to where I stand tonight. There's no reason why you shouldn't know so I'll reveal now that I plan to join the Scout Regiment.

There's a knock at my door.

Wait, no. My story. I watch the Commander intently, antsy for the ceremony to end so I can-

_Knock. Knock knock._

I'm standing between two people I don't know very well. I'm going to join the-

_Knock knock knock._

Someone calls my name. I stand at ease. A warm bead of sweat rolls down my neck.

"_You alright in there?"_

I flinch awake and snap my head up, eyes blinking open with a sting, and a cold smear of drool making itself known on my chin to the open air. I sit at my desk in my room, door closed and locked, closet strewn about in heaps and torn apart tatters over the floor and my bed. A sticky note hangs from my shoulder, and a blue marker seems to have leaked all over my pants.

There's the knocking again, the concerned voice of my mother muffled through the wooden barrier.

"Hey. Sweetie? Do you want to talk about it?"

I wipe my face roughly, the previous events of the evening coming back in a wave of images and emotions that knock my senses down a few more notches below groggy. My cheeks are crusted with dried tears, and my eyelashes gummy with moist salt. My first attempt to answer my mother's questions results in a half-hearted groaning gurgle, before I swallow thickly and pull myself into a standing position.

"I'm okay, Mama." I say, a rasp tickling the back of my tongue. She seems satisfied enough with this answer for now, and tells me I can eat dinner in my room tonight if I want. The sentiment is appreciated; I'm never allowed to eat in my room (an improperly cleaned mess could attract vermin and critters).

I've spaced out staring at a pile of something that used to be a picture or some sort, and lift my gaze around the room glumly. Speaking of messes…

Almost an hour later I've fully cleaned myself up and changed into my sleep-clothes. My room is in a marginally better state, most of the chaos organised into material coded piles. I crouch down amongst a heap of clothes, all previously clean before the blow-out of my temper, sorting through them to find my flash drive and comb.

I want to go back to sleep, though.

My story should probably start here, so as to negate any misconceptions about who and what I really am. And I am, that is, a normal teenager in a normal world; unplagued by the horrors of Titans and the wonders of 3DMG. I go to school, I deal with family issues, I have a dog and two cats, I like to play videogames and watch eclectic shows, and I have emotional stability troubles. I'm the whole package of perfectly socially average.

Most would disagree on the average part and shed light to my amazingly sharp, dark humour, and my talent for making people think twice about traditional sayings and their meanings. They would tell me I'm beautiful, to conserve some idea of delicacy that they have for me (because everyone has self-image problems, apparently.) And they would try to convince me that I am a wonderful human being.

While their opinions are always considered, I don't much care for the sugar-coating of life. I understand its harshness, and fully recognise its beauty, so don't do much to romanticise its nature. It is what it is. And that's that.

I am having no luck finding either article I search for, so retract back to aimlessly standing in the center of my room. I'm so tired, and not remotely hungry. I think I'll skip dinner entirely. With a lethargic and broad sweeping motion, I fling myself onto the lower portion of my bed and sprawl out like a wet noodle. I kind of feel like one, too.

Mushy and weak, a little damp around the edges, and ready to fall apart if moved against my will. Like soggy, used toilet paper. Sorry, that was a crude analogy.

I lay there in a heap for quite a while. I wait for sleep to reclaim me. I watch the minutes tick by, then the hours. Ten at night becomes three in the morning, and the darkness outside slowly shifts to a cool, lazy blue glow through the blinds. I feel I drooled again, as rolling over reveals a chilly patch of dampness on the corner of my mouth. I wipe it away with the sleeve of my flannel and sit up.

Sleep isn't coming.

As this realisation is accepted, a sharp ringing tones from the room across from mine, followed by a tone out for a structure fire somewhere across county. I hear my parents rustle awake instantly, and it's barely two minutes before both have found their equipment and have rushed out the door, closing it a bit harshly behind them. I remain perched at the foot of my bed as the new empty silence of being entirely alone sops under the door and sprawls out in wispy tendrils on the still air of my room.

Just in case some explaining of what happened is needed, my family, including myself, are volunteers at the fire department. I'm too worn down to have found it in me to go on the call, and I have school in the morning. I mean, in a couple of hours.

Feeling, once again, a bit melodramatic, I toss myself backwards, expecting to flop down onto soft cushion and covers. Instead, I forget where my position is exactly on the bed and tumble over the side.

The claims to time slowing and falling endlessly before impact in most novels don't make sense to me, because when something happens it happens fast. My head makes contact with the ground, followed by a sharp pain in my neck and shoulders. And that's that.


	2. Entrant

[2] Entrant.

_noun_

noun: **entrant**; plural noun: **entrants**

a person or group that enters, joins, or takes part in something.

* * *

><p>I lurch up in a bed with the beginnings of a choking gasp, hands coming up to the sides of my head and eyes staring in widened terror at an unfamiliar wall. There is a blanket pooled around my midsection, and a damp rag has fallen from my forehead to my lap. The room is silent, empty; save for a couch, a small end table, a pot of water, and the furnishing I sit on. I don't know where I am, and try to recall the last thing I can remember.<p>

The ceremony. Commander Erwin. Two cadets I didn't know. Sweat. The firelight of the stage torches. Scout Regiment. A knocking in my head. No, a pounding, even with my pulse, loud, painful. Nausea? I blacked out.

I conclude I must be in a recovery room, and swing bare legs over the edge of the bed as I fling the blanket off. The floorboards creak, and I hear a sudden, sharp shifting outside the door. I pause to listen as two voices whisper furiously about something, one giving a light yelp of pain as the other moves closer to the door. I tense, bracing myself as the knob turns, the door slides open softly, and two sets of identically cherry brown eyes peer in from outside.

I feel my lips stretch thin in a wide, welcoming smile.

"She awakens!" Comes the cry of the male of the two, as the female bolts inside and kneels directly at my feet with both hands taking mine in a display of relieved excitement.

"We were so worried! Jared saw you fall and the cadet on your right managed to catch you, I think his name was Danny? But anyway it was all Marissa and I could do to keep Jared from tearing him apart to get you away from him and figure out what was wrong. The whole ceremony was delayed as they got a doctor to you to figure out what happened. He said you seemed fine physically, but couldn't get any response out of you, so brought you here. We tried to come with but-"

"But those assholes care more about their cannon fodder than their cannon fodder's cannon fodder." Jared interrupts the babbling girl, and I chuckle lightly at the afronted look she shoots him, obviously offended he hadn't let her finish.

"Anyway," she bites out, returning a softer gaze to me. "Tom and Reynold were here earlier but had to get their gear and quarters straightened out. Jared and I took over watch for them. They're so silly sometimes. I think they were placing bets on who Jessica would kill once she finds out what happened, when the Captain came by and told them to waste their time more productively."

I'm not sure which to focus on; my sister's or the Captain's mentioning. I absently shoo away a fussing Jared as he inspects my arms and neck, and slide my eyes towards the door. The three of us are comfortably silent as I process the situation, Ingrid's thumbs massaging the palms of my hands while the only man in the room solemnly stares into the pot of water; he's just pouting for not being allowed to crowd me any further than I already am.

"So where am I?" I ask at last, pulling my hands from the girl's as I move to stand. A swirl of diziness teases my senses, but I pull myself upright without incident as my friends recede politely to give me more space.

Ingrid opens her mouth to reply, but Jared jumps at the opportunity to answer before she can.

"One of the Scout's Rose Wall bases. We all pitched in and made sure they didn't move you to next week's straggler's ceremony." He stands a little taller in obvious pride in his assisted accomplishment, and I smile gratefully at him as I pluck pants from the stack of clothes I hadn't earlier noticed at the foot of the bed.

"What assignment are you two skipping out on to be here," I press knowingly, casting them amused glances as I strap myself up and tug on my boots. They exchange guilty looks, and then proceed to have a quick, silent argument consisting of I-Told-You-So glares and Don't-Even-Go-There sneers. I have my jacket pulled over my laced up shirt and am dazedly fumbling with the emblem displayed on the front pocket by the time they answer with heads dipped and eyes cast to their shoes.

"I'm supposed to be helping prepare breakfast," Jared mumbles into his vest collar.

"And I should be brushing and feeding the horses," Ingrid adds defeatedly.

They both look up to meet my patient gaze, and I watch them register the impression of feeling small and hunched where they stand before me. My shoulders are pulled back with the natural lay of my hands folded behind my hips, and my legs have taken their usual broad stance as I wait for them to get back to what they should be doing.

This authoritative posture is one I learned and practiced during the first months of training. I knew I would get nowhere useful if I showed any signs of typical newbie cowering, but also didn't want to put effort into being assertive and loud. Effort better utilized in focusing on effective and powerful maneuverability. Somehow, the passively dominant yet approachable air I had adapted lured less self-assured cadets into seeking my attention and, eventually, my affection, and I made quick friends out of Ingrid and her childhood partner Jared. For the longest time, I was convinced they were related, despite how many times they denied such claims. I still forget they're not siblings every now and then.

The two of them excuse themselves and file out orderly, but not before reminding me of their joy with my return to consciousness. I stand alone in the room now, watching the creeping glow of sunrise through the shutters.

I vacantly thumb the winged patch on my breast, again, still awed by how real my young aspirations have become. I feel, and hear, a presence at the door, and prepare my thoughts for sending away Ingrid and/or Jared once more.

But as I turn to face them, I am not met by warm brown eyes. Instead, hard grey ones stare back, and I find myself saluting and all but breathing out a respectful, "Sir."

His eyes narrow, and he casts them about the room I stand in, a trace of revulsion tainting his features, before muttering half aggressively and leaving just as quickly as he came. I look about dumbly, startled that the first thing Humanity's Strongest Soldier would say to me is;

_"You better be planning to clean this sty before you join your friends, cadet, or it will be the second to last bloody mess I leave you in."_

I don't even see anything to clean up.


	3. Hedonistic

[3] Hedonistic.

_adjective_

adjective: **hedonistic**

engaged in the pursuit of pleasure; sensually self-indulgent.

* * *

><p>It's probably only ten minutes later that I finally exit the recovery room, having busied myself with attempting to do as Lance Corporal Levi had commanded. The sheets of the bed were replaced, the pot dumped and tucked away under the end table, the damp rag used to dust the more powdery surfaces of the room, and the floor was swept with a small broom I had found under the bed. I even rearranged the sparse furniture slightly to make it feel more homely.<p>

Instead of dwell on the strange demand, though, I turn my focus to finding the mess hall, as I assume that's where Jared will be. Unfortunately, I missed the introductory tour, so am more or less going blind. With any lack of luck, I'm also headed the wrong way.

The increasingly potent smell of food tells me otherwise, though, and I allow a little more trust in myself to slip into my stride. At some point I am joined by a woman with beautiful red hair, and a far away look in her eyes. And on her lips. Actually, that's drool.

"Good morning," I greet her, earning only a happy humming giggle in return. I make a mental note to be wary around this one, maintaining an even pace while she drifts along beside me.

"I'm a new member of this Regiment," I try further, observing her expression not change with this news. She only nods, as if she were already aware. Or as if she hadn't entirely registered what I said.

Interesting. Though it is fairly early in the morning. She probably just hasn't fully awoken yet.

We reach a pair of double doors, and I pull one open, standing aside to allow the woman inside first. She staggers through while inhaling deeply, eyes becoming more distant as she let's out a low shuddering cackle. I am almost certain I hear her whisper something about eating everything, all the delicious food, before I let the door swing shut.

But it catches, on someone's boot I note as I glance down, and so I carefully push it open again to let the next person in.

"Sorry, I didn't see y- sir!" I brace my own boot against the bottom lip of the door and snap into another salute. The shorter man gives me what seems to be a worn look, as if he is tired of my treatment, and he makes no move to enter the hall. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and shifts his weight to his right leg, studying me silently.

I begin to wonder whether this is just his usual behaviour, and has nothing to do with me personally. But I decide I will observe his actions, first, before passing judgement.

The Captain makes a strange sound, like that of one who is involuntarily satisfied, and he takes a step closer while narrowing his eyes further.

"You forgot to open the window." I can feel my eyelids pull tightly into my brow as I meet his deadpanned expression with apprehensive shock. Before I can reply, he passes me, lacing his arms behind his back as he goes and straightening up. The posture looks almost casual on him.

The door swings closed.

It's easy enough to find Jared, whom had always said "I'm the best soldier, but a better cook." He never fails to prove himself on the latter part, but his record doesn't leave much for the former. We talked a little, mostly about what flavours the soldiers might enjoy, and how one could alter them to personal preference. I ended up leaving him to his work when the full-time chef threatened me with a spatula coated in some sort of gravy, which was entirely understandable. Now I sit in nervous boredom at a dimly populated table, absently watching a couple of guys talk about the optimal waxes for keeping their straps soft. I'm not even sure how they would obtain some of them, much less why they're any better than the stuff our suppliers provide us.

There is a sudden, warm weight around my shoulders, and I am pulled beneath the arm of a large, grinning man.

"Mornin' sunshine," he bellows, and I smile happily back at his excitedly twinkling eyes. There's an underlying glint of concern, but for now it's obvious he is just happy to see me up and running.

"Thanks, Rey. Did all your things get arranged well enough?" I let him rest his chin on my shoulder as he replies, rumbling contentedly about no troubles at all, not including my episode, which is mentioned as a sidelong and humorous jab. I roll my eyes, but continue to smile.

He breaks away when another man steps over to join us. Tom. A rather lanky figure with a consistently disheveled mop of thin white hair. He is balancing three trays in his bony arms, and manages to slide one each in front of Reynold and myself before flopping down across from us and resting his chin in the palm of his hand, red eyes observing me with what might seem to be disdain to an outsider.

"I see someone finally decided to join the land of the living," he hums.

"I'm feeling fine, thanks for asking." A sweet smile counters his sour pout, but his eyebrows wrinkle in amusement. Reynold chuckles deeply before turning to inhale his meal.

"You had us all worried there, kid. Well, everyone besides me, of course. I knew you wouldn't ditch us so soon after our oath of allegiance." Tom lifts a steamy roll to his lips and nibbles on it, still watching me.

"Yeah. Thanks for keeping me company last night." All he does is grunt into the bread, shifting his attention to his food. I do the same, sans the grunting. I'm still nursing my eggs by the time the two of them are done, and they both tell me to take it easy as they leave for chores. I prod at my now cold roll.

Someone all but jumps down besides me, and I startle, lurching away from the possible threat. But they've just come to join the two men who were earlier talking about wax. I wipe my mouth with my napkin and make the motions to stand up. An unexpected pressure sits me back down, though, and I snap my gaze up to my newest affronter.

That dark grey hue that I doubt I will ever get used to bores down into my wide stare, and the Captain's lips draw thin while he eyes my tray.

"You still need to be fully initiated. Report to my office after breakfast." He pauses to turn his head away, gazing almost blankly towards somewhere not-in-particular. "And finish your food." Then he's gone, hand leaving my shoulder feeling four pounds lighter. He must have been restricting me so I wouldn't salute him again, I assume while I return to the now chilled meal.

As I choke down the last of my breakfast, I can't help but suddenly be hyper aware of all four copies of the Scout's emblem on my jacket. They seem to burn against my skin, and I resist the urge to take the article off. I wipe my mouth once more and then stand, turning to leave. But a problem arises.

I have no idea where the Captain's office is.


	4. Toxicology

[4] Toxicology.

_noun_

noun: **toxicology**

the branch of science concerned with the nature, effects, and detection of poisons.

* * *

><p>"Thanks, I think I can handle it from here. Take care!" The young woman with breathtaking blue eyes and brilliant blonde hair flashes me a dashing smile, and returns my gesture of farewell and well-wishings as she departs down the hall. I can't help but watch her go, gaze glued to how fluidly she moves through some plane of higher existence, her emblem swinging on her green cloak like a pantomime of her true nature.<p>

I feel like I have experienced what it is like to sing with angels, and drag my form with great effort towards the end of the hall that I had been directed. I must be unacceptably late by now, but there is something in me that is ready for any and all repercussions. Renewed. Strong. I was unaware that I had been feeling a little down. I stand outside the door and knock thrice, firmly.

"Come in." The Captain's voice slides muffled past the barrier, and I hesitate before entering the room carefully. Levi sits behind his desk, a stack of papers in one hand and a mug of something hot in the other. He doesn't look up as he motions to the other man in the room with him. I respectably salute once more, earning the faintest expel of tense air from the smaller man while instantly catching the lighter blue-grey gaze of the Commander in Chief.

No one comments on my tardiness, and I immediately realise I am being analysed.

"At ease, cadet." I relax into the usual stance and tip my chin up a little, shifting my sights to land on the far wall evenly.

"How are you feeling, Fearghail?" He addressed me by my last name. The shift from generic soldier designation to semi-equal is a little disorienting. But only slightly.

"Fine, sir." However, I can't bring myself to return the sentiment. He is still a superior, and while it wouldn't be rude to call him by his last name as well, it's not something I'm ready to do so soon after arriving in this Regiment. Formalities and proprieties come first.

He moves from his place beside Levi's desk, the silent figure's eyes glinting as he shifts them. Though I don't know where he looks to exactly. The Commander idly paces to the open window behind the desk, exposing his back to me. Another level of trust? Either that or he is testing me.

"Why did you want to join the military, Fearghail?"

My response is delayed for appearance's sake, but I reply automatically. A mantra I learned from my father, and perfected over time.

"To learn, to serve, to protect. To fight for our freedom, and our future. I wish to join the military to put my life on the line for those that cannot or will not, and willingly devote my eternal loyalty to the safety and prosperity of the King and his people."

The Commander nods, not turning from the window.

"Interesting variation of the official oath. It's pretty, I'll give you that." He turns only his head and casts a slanted, calm look my way. In his eyes I see recognition, and I wonder if he fought beside my father once upon a time.

"Now tell me why you joined."

The room is silent. I stare blankly at the blonde man who watches me with such a patient look. I'm suddenly hyper-aware that the Lance Corporal's eyes have abandoned their paperwork and are now resting complacently on my face. They're both waiting.

But I can't tell them. Not if I want to remain here without hassle and harassment. So I dig around for something suitable, having long forgotten the reason I gave my instructor, and recompose my quivering resolve.

I turn my sights to the stormy one, who also just so happens to be the only one sitting down, and salute again. I ignore the put-out sound he makes.

"My father was a member of the Survey Corps." Pause. Let it sink in, as if I were reliving a memory.

"Every time he came back from a mission, he'd invite a friend of his squad to the house to celebrate with his family. My mother, my two brothers, and myself were always pleased to have the company.

"The friend usually seemed like he had better things to do, but for some reason kept coming. Sometimes I think us children were more excited to antagonise our father's friend than welcome father home." I smile slightly, half for show and half for the fond and morose bubble of emotions swirling in my head.

"I remember saluting to him one time. I think I wanted to make him smile; he was so gloomy. Only I had the wrong fist over the wrong side, and all he did was frown, shake his head, kneel, and correct my arrangement. He said something that fascinated me, too. 'I pray-'"

"-you'll never be required to throw away your life like us, kid."

The Corporal had put his work down and was lounging somewhat stiffly, eyes widened in a similar recognition that earlier tainted the Commander's features.

"Then you looked at me, with all your childish ignorance, and told me you'd dig our lives out of the waste piles and keep us safely in your pockets. And if anyone tried to pick your pockets and steal us again, you'd break their nose just like how daddy taught you; "

The Commander turns and casts a subtly sharp look towards Levi.

"Let Fearghail speak."

The smaller man makes a grunt of compliance and readjusts himself, crossing arms and legs and watching me with his usual bored complexion.

I am silent for a moment, lowering the salute to let my arms hang by my sides. I let my posture slip a little, too, and return to staring at the wall.

"Father didn't come home one day. So, like any angry and hurt child, I vowed to get revenge." I slide my gaze to Erwin, who stands impassively by the window. I can't read him.

"When I came of age, I jumped on the first recruiting wagon and found myself among the 105th Trainees Squad." He let his guard slip some when he glanced towards his comrade, and I saw suspicion lace his gaze. But he didn't note on it, and instead stepped forward until he was toe to toe with me.

"I hereby officially welcome you, Aeron Fearghail, among the Survey Corps. May you serve as boldly as you dream."


End file.
